


Tanabata

by Lackless



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Tanabata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 08:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15482247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lackless/pseuds/Lackless
Summary: Dan spends a rainy day thinking about the gorgeous stranger he met a year ago.





	Tanabata

He checks his phone for what seems to be the thousandth time that morning. The app that tracks his phone usage tells him it’s actually only the 40th time, and “hey, it’s time for a screen free challenge!”. He rolls his eyes. No reply. 

 

The day had started grey, and now rain lashes against the window. This is not atypical for July in London but is disappointing nonetheless. 

 

He sighs and picks up his stylus, sketching more lines on the design he’s been fiddling with for weeks and weeks. It’s done. Objectively he knows that it’s done. The spring/summer line for 2019 is a gorgeous hazy confection, unstructured lines and asymmetric gauzy wisps, ephemeral and diaphanous in their drape. But his obsessive perfectionism won’t let him stop tinkering. These designs needed to be final last week, but he can’t let go. He picks up his phone again. Nothing. 

 

“Dan…” a voice pulls his head out of his phone, which he drops to the desk. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Um, we still need you to sign off on this fabric?” Dan casts his eye over the scraps of chiffon pinned to a board and, glad for the distraction, unleashes into a diatribe about how he wanted cerulean, for fucks sake and this was clearly sky blue. Having sent the intern scurrying away he suddenly feels guilty. Is it her fault that he’s a pining idiot? He looks across the river, towards the conference centre and thinks about the smell of straw, how it felt prickling his back through this shirt. How he cringed but also kind of loved the cliche of fucking in an actual fucking hayloft. Of large hands and a deep, musical voice and two hundred and thirty three miles, or only one hundred and seventy seven as the crow flies, he has been assured.  

 

That night in Manchester had passed like a dream, starting with a hot airless nightclub and sticky floors. A hand on his waist on the dance floor and friends abandoned for a broad shouldered stranger with cheekbones to die for and a slightly-too-prominent nose. Laser blue eyes kept Dan hypnotised through messy kisses and grinding, into an uber and back to this beautiful strangers place. A cab ride that lasted longer than expected, city streets rolling into hills and fields. Dan remembers in his stomach the thrill of danger he felt, that this man could have been taking him anywhere and he would have willingly gone. They had pulled up a winding path through a farm, which Phil, his charming stranger, had sheepishly admitted to owning. Uber dispatched, they had traipsed hand in hand through a muddy field and there, in an actual fucking hayloft, had he bedded this rugged farmer, coming apart on his monster cock as the first light of grey dawn stained the endless sky over the sleepy hills.  

 

There is a crack of thunder and Dan is bumped back to reality, like a jarring scritch of a record needle pulling him out of his daydreams. He huffs and sighs and taps through three interminable meetings and a team lunch, then back to staring through the window. Maybe he got the date wrong? A quick google reveals that yes, the conference is today, 7th July, yes it’s in London and yes it’s at County Hall. He almost can’t see the building across the river through the sheet of rain outside. He narrows his eyes at where it ought to be. Could he have got things so wrong? He scrolls up through months of whatsapp flirting. Pictures of hills and cows and a gloriously large dick. Blue eyes in a narrow face. Promises to meet again, when work allows. His message has been double grey ticked. Just as he thinks he’s getting seriously fed up with this guy his phone pings and the banner says.

 

**_P - Come to me_ **

**_P - My train is at 4, I’ve got half an hour before I need to get to Euston :)_ **

 

Dan stands bolt upright, and picks up his translucent white jacket and a clear umbrella. Any thought he had of playing it cool flies straight out of his head. He’s halfway across the room in long legged strides before Marie, the bravest of his team, calls over,

 

“Dan! Are you off then? What about the collection?”

 

“It’s final.” He says, trying not to think about how much work is still to do, as he strides out of the door. His team will hate him, but the chance to see Phil comes along so rarely. 

 

When he gets down to the street an accident has closed Westminster bridge. Police tape bars his way and a couple of dolorous bobbies stand on either side to deter pedestrians from crossing. The rain had been so heavy after such a dry spell that the water was all on the surface, you see… the coppers explained matter of factly, the bus driver couldn’t see you see, it’s a mess and please let the emergency services do their work. Yes, they’re going to be a while but you could get across at Waterloo bridge. His mind works quickly. Waterloo bridge is out, it’s too far and will take too long. If he tries to hop on the Jubilee line he’ll spend 10 minutes getting down there and 10 minutes waiting for a train. He’s going to miss this chance, because of the fucking rain. They’re both so fucking busy with work. 

 

Dan rages inside and struggles with his umbrella to keep his phone dry as he pulls up whatsapp and fires off a few quick messages and a crying face emoji. He stands on the north side of the river and looks across, watching the fat drops splash in the grey river. A single magpie flaps down and alights on the white stone wall, near to where he is standing. They make eye contact, and Dan drops his head. It wasn’t meant to be today. 

 

*

 

A train barrels out of London Euston, grey becoming green outside the further north he gets. Concrete and wire turn to field and farm. He feels like he is shrugging off a yoke as his old life falls away behind him. Dan cradles a still warm coffee in his lap and thinks about his spring/summer collection for 2020. As people will soon find out, his final collection for that house. His team had scratched their heads and said words like ‘bold’ and ‘striking’, but he could tell that they hadn’t understood. Everything is still asymmetric but this time sharp and structured and monochrome, with just a hint of petrol green on the blacks. It’s quite a departure from his previous work and he couldn’t be prouder of it. The designs were finalised months ago, production is well underway. He’s earned this. He pulls out his phone to find an excited flurry of hearts, stars, question marks and a missed facetime from Phil in response to his selfie from the train. He smiles and outside the train the sun shines. 

**Author's Note:**

> my first ever fic, feedback welcome :)


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